


Sixteen

by surveycorpsjean



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cheerleaders, College Football, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surveycorpsjean/pseuds/surveycorpsjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, is just your cliche love story. </p><p>This, is how the football star and the hot cheerleader fell deep, deep down the rabbit hole. </p><p>This, is how Yahaba gained his favorite number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> for kyouhaba week day 3: sports swap (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑ 
> 
> and here's a big ol' thank you to [fxvixen](http://fxvixen.tumblr.com/) for helping w the editing

Yahaba likes what he does.

It’s not his _career choice,_ of course- he attends the university for his own aspirations, after all - but he does like this sport a lot.

He never really thought of cheerleading as _girly_ or lame, or whatever the stereotypical shithead white boys call it in movies. It’s actually pretty tough; it requires physical strength and skill, and Yahaba is always more than happy to rise to the challenge.

And, you know, fuck gender roles anyways.

That’s why he walked up to the coach on the first week of school, and asked when auditions were. The coach’s eyes went wide – she’s a young coach, but skilled nonetheless. Yahaba had just smiled, hands behind his back, eyes sparkly.

He liked cheerleading in high school, so why not keep doing it in college?

That’s what he told himself, anyways.

He was ecstatic when he made the team, and _thrilled_ when he discovered that he wasn’t the only male to make it as well – an upperclassman, it seems.

Team meetings are all hard work and sweat; lifting, and routines, memorizing before the football season starts. It’s hard work, and rough work, as the football team practices outside in the cold.

But Yahaba likes what he does, and he won’t listen to anyone else tell him he should think differently.

 

* * *

 

“Just a little higher, Yahaba,” Coach calls, and Yahaba nods. Today they practice on the school fields- the weather is warmer now, as the sun begins to shine longer.

“Like that?”

“Perfect.” Coach nods. The girl standing on his left shoulder wavers a little – he prepares to catch her, but she remains still.

“Careful, Yachi.”

“S-sorry!”

“Don’t mind.” Yahaba calls, smiling. Yachi is sweet, and kind, and requires more praise than the others to keep her spirits high.

“Don’t worry.” Sugawara jokes, from Yahaba’s left, “I’ll catch you if he drops you.”

“I won’t drop her!” Yahaba laughs, his hand braced against her calf.

“Stop the chit-chat.” The captain calls, hands on her hips, a grin wide, “Alright ladies, drop.”

Yachi hesitates before she falls back. Yahaba catches her easily, firm in his arms.

She gasps, and looks up, smiling, “Thank you!”

“Good job today.” Yahaba smiles back. He sets her on her feet, and Yachi wipes her hands off on her practice leggings.

“You as well!”

“Alright team, that’s good for today.” The captain grins next to the coach, “How about you go ogle the boys a little?”

There’s hushed laughter – Yahaba, too, can’t resist a smile. It’s a big day, because now they practice _outside_ ; they haven’t been able to watch the team much, since the games have yet to start, and the weather was too cold to do routines outside of the gym.  

But they _have_ seen the team in passing, and Yahaba’s very pansexual heart definitely agrees that they are all wonderfully attractive.

A slap on the back jolts Yahaba into walking, “Hard day today, yeah?” Suga smiles.

“Yeah.” Yahaba agrees, “It’s tougher than in high school.”

“Did you do competitive?”

“No, just football games.”

“Ahh.” Suga nods, an arm draped around his shoulder, despite being slightly shorter. “Well, this is the big leagues, somewhat.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“I didn’t last year.” Suga says honestly, “I was too scared to cheer alone. But uh, aha, I heard about another guy joining, so I figured I’d grow a pair.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Yahaba grins.

Sugawara smiles back, and pushes him a little more, “Ah, hurry Yabs, before their practice ends.”

“Why so antsy?”

“Uh, have you _seen_ number thirty-four?” Suga raises an eyebrow, following the cheerleaders to the metal benches on the sidelines. “He’s beautiful.”

Yahaba hasn’t, actually, so he scans the team as he sits to watch.

They’re doing drills, diving in and out between cones, sweating heavily in the heat. Yahaba recognizes a few names on their jerseys, just from word of mouth.

_Kuroo, Bokuto, Ushijima, Tanaka._

He watches their bodies bend and turn, practiced, under the blows of the coach’s whistle.

Thirty-four runs by, and Yahaba reads the name _Sawamura._

“Isn’t he in your class?” Yahaba raises an eyebrow, kicking out his feet before him.

“Oh yeah.” Suga coos, “Half the female population is thirsting after him, though.”

“I can kinda’ see why.” Yahaba tips his head, “He’s got that grown up look.”

“He’s total daddy material.”

“ _Suga._ ” Yahaba laughs, and Sugawara laughs with him.

The sun beats down, but they continue to watch. They team runs through different drills, strong bodies and muscle twisting under uniforms.

Then finally, begins the practice game.

The large team is divided in half, a mock game now in play. Yahaba isn’t so much paying attention to the game, rather than the girls. They’re _enveloped,_ totally, by the players, chattering happily. Unfortunately, Sugawara is too, his eyes following number thirty-four.

The center snaps the ball back to the quarterback; a tall, broad guy, with sharp hair and even sharper eyes. He tosses it to a wide receiver. He takes it, and plows past a few guys, before stopping at a tall linebacker- Yahaba catches the name _Ushijima._

“They’re so big.” Yahaba thinks aloud. “They just…slam into each other.”

“I know.” Suga coos, “It’s almost like a wet dream.”

“Goddamn.” Yahaba laughs, and lifts his water bottle for emphasis, “Need some, thirsty?”

Suga giggles behind his hand- a gesture you wouldn’t expect from someone strong enough to lift girls above his head.

The whistle blows again; Yahaba hears the words _first down._

The center throws back again, and the quarterback catches it easily. He throws, this time, to someone else.

Yahaba sees the number _sixteen_ before it’s gone in a flash.

Yahaba’s mouth falls open, his back straightening, as number sixteen _plows_ past Ushijima, and past the safeties. His body is lean, yet radiates unyielding strength. There’s a few hoots and hollers from the offensive team, obviously joking in their practice match, but sixteen runs, and runs, his body rough and trained.

“Wow.” Suga whispers beside him, “So the rumors are true.”

Sixteen reaches the end zone, and slows his pace, relaxing his shoulders. He doesn’t celebrate, and he doesn’t cheer. He only holds the ball, slowing to a stop as his practice team hollers.

Yahaba raises an eyebrow, “What rumor?”

“About number sixteen.” Sugawara gestures, “They call him the _Mad Dog,_ you know.”

“Really?”

“Yep! He’s just a freshman, like you.” Suga grins, “But apparently he’s full of untapped power. I think he’s a little hard to control, but Iwaizumi seems to have him in check.”

“Iwaizumi?”

“The quarterback. He went to my middle school. We were-“

Suga speaks, but Yahaba doesn’t hear.

Sixteen takes off his helmet, sliding it off to breathe – and time slows down. His team members pat him on the back as the field resets, the defense and offense switching sides.

But sixteen looks up, right at the source of the cheering- right at their bench, where the cheerleaders hoot.

The first thing Yahaba sees are his eyes. They’re sharp, so, _so_ sharp, full of danger and fire. His hair is short, and oddly dyed, sweat dripping down his brow and across those strands.

Yahaba can’t breathe.

Sixteen turns and begins to walk back down the field, ignoring the cheers from his teammates.

Yahaba catches his name on the back of his jersey.

_Kyoutani._

 

* * *

 

Yahaba collapses on his bed, limbs sprawled, eyes closed, “Fuck.”

Watari spins around in the computer chair, much like the Godfather, “Rough day?”

He turns and mumbles into his pillow, “I almost dropped Kiyoko today.”

“The pretty girl?”

“Yep.”

“R.I.P.”

“Shut up.” Yahaba laughs, turning his head to half-glare, “I see you’re in the same spot I left you in.”

“ _Hey._ ” Watari stresses, “I do believe that this place smells less like pizza, and more like citrus now, thank you.”

“So you drowned the room in Febreeze. Good job.”

“I _also_ vacuumed.”

Yahaba coos sarcastically, “Wow, you left your chair. Proud of you.” -and gets a pillow thrown to his head.

“Don’t judge, cheerleader boy.” Watari jokes, “You wear short skirts I wear t-shirts.”

Yahaba snorts into the pillow, and twists to sit up in bed, “Are we ordering pizza again for dinner?”

“Oh definitely.”

 

* * *

 

Soon, football season will start. Soon, the away games will begin.

Yahaba somehow manages to jumble practice _and_ school, barely, through sweat and work.

He concentrates, pushing out the distractions of pretty cheerleaders and gorgeous football players, instead focusing on his love for the sport, and his love for the tiredness in his muscles.

Still, there’s something alluring about number sixteen. He just _can’t_ get it out of his head; those, ironically, dog-like eyes that stare shamelessly with power.

Yahaba avoids them like the plague, for his own heart’s sake.

He reads the words in his textbook, but barely registers them at all. He sighs, his head falling against the tree in the school courtyard. He looks up to people watch, his eyes falling across sweet couples and groups of friends, chattering happily.

Yahaba pauses.

Across the yard there’s another loner, sitting under a tree, a textbook in his lap. The hair is easily distinguishable; it’s number sixteen, huddled alone, radiating an aura that says _leave me alone._

So he is, indeed, left alone, except for the occasional leaf that floats from the tree above.

Yahaba can’t help but stare – he looks so…relaxed, somehow. Kyoutani’s eyes scan the pages, occasionally flipping to the next. He’s actually kind of adorable, in his t-shirt and flannel, and his NY snapback. Yahaba can see holes in his black jeans, and bruises underneath the fabric.

Suddenly, the eyes glance up- and surprisingly, right at Yahaba.

His blood runs cold, and he jolts, thinking _oh god, I’m such a creep-_

Yahaba’s eyes flicker down to his textbook; he seriously considers running, the heat on his cheeks already betraying him. He _feels_ those eyes linger, before the heat disappears. Yahaba swallows and closes his eyes for just a moment, sucking in air he didn’t know he needed.

 _Fuck,_ those eyes.

 

* * *

 

Their first game is at home.

The stadium fills up; it’s not huge, but it is intimidating.

Still, Yahaba isn’t one to crack under pressure. He can feel Suga at his side, there, supporting him as they shout and cheer.

The stadium rumbles behind them, chanting and hollering, driving them on.

Yahaba feels good; their outfits are purple and white, pretty, and sparkly. They’re skin tight, and oddly seductive, for a men’s uniform.

Ah, well, gender equality, and all that. If the girls have to wear short-shorts, then so should they.

“Go Panthers, go!” The girls chant, happy, and peppy, pom-poms whooshing through the air as the kicker approaches the ball.

In the past months Yahaba has grown _quite_ familiar with their kicker.

Oikawa Tooru, an upperclassman who is _shamelessly_ dating the quarterback. His kick is phenomenal, as he shows now, punting it hard and far.

The game begins, and the crowd roars. They cheer on the sidelines, running through routine after routine. He and Suga tumble backwards – a practiced move on the grass – and pop up, arms high, shouting for their team. They split off into circles, multiple girls helping others into the air, Sugawara and Yahaba standing back for support.

They raise their pom-poms up high and cheer, waving to the crowd. They yell back, mostly, for the first down that Bokuto gets.

It’s energizing and exhausting all the same. The girls stand and wave pom-poms between routines, cheering during plays. Yahaba keeps himself focused…but…

Sixteen.

He’s _incredible._

He’s not like Ushijima, who is like a strong wall. He’s not like Bokuto and Kuroo, who work in tandem, and heavy throws. He’s unlike Daichi, and Oikawa, and Tanaka and Yamamoto and _every_ member on that football team.

He truly is a trump card.

Iwaizumi throws to him _only_ when he deems it wise, Yahaba has observed – but when he _does_ throw it to him, Kyoutani always catches that ball and _tears_ past the defense, wild, like an animal.

He makes it fifteen yards, the announcer says, before he’s stopped by the defensive team. Still, Kyoutani rises strong, handing the ball to a ref, and righting his helmet.

A part of Yahaba needs- _yearns-_ for him to take it off.

To see those eyes once more.

But he needs to focus; keep his head in the game, as Troy Bolton once said.

Yahaba doesn’t see the helmet come off. He doesn’t see those eyes flicker his way.

 

* * *

 

They lose the game, but it was only a match. They’ll win the next one, for sure.

 

* * *

 

Kyoutani is certainly a distraction; it’s difficult, because Yahaba is _a hundred percent sure_ that Sixteen doesn’t even know his name.

At least, until the new semester starts, and they end up in the same damn calculous class. Of _course_ Yahaba recognizes the head of hair resting two rows ahead of him.

Yahaba realizes then that he’s crushing on someone that doesn’t even know he _exists._

He drowns out the rest of the lecture.

 

* * *

 

“You won’t believe this.” Suga says, after practice. “Yabs you _will not believe this.”_

“What? What?”

“Look!” Suga raises his hand, showing his phone, dimmed under the sun. He squints to read _Sawamura Daichi._

“Oh wow.” Yahaba swallows, “Good job.”

“Thank you.” Suga pretends to flip his imaginary long hair, “We’re going to _study_ together next weekend.”

“Something tells me no studying is actually going to happen.”

“Nope.” He coos, happy as can be.

Yahaba runs a hand through his sweat soaked hair, and gives a half smile. He resists the urge to look across the field, to the players that sweat under the sun, strong, and unwavering.

“Hey.” Suga grins, slapping his shoulder, “Don’t give up yet. You can still talk to Sixteen.”

Yahaba perks up, “ _How -_ “

“Pff. You think I don’t know thirst?” Suga grins, “I know thirst when I see it, baby.”

Yahaba groans, pressing his face into his hands, “It’s not…It’s just…” He sighs, “…he’s so hot.”

“Don’t worry.” Suga waves around his phone, “The away game is this Thursday. I’ll make sure you bend over a few extra times just for show.”

“ _Suga.”_ He laughs, shoving his shoulder, already feeling a little better. Suga laughs with him, locking their arms together, and leading them towards the locker room.

Yahaba only had one friend when he came here; Watari, his loyal bestie since childhood. Watari has always been there, and _will_ always be there for him.

But now, Yahaba is making more friends.

Sugawara, for one, is a friend that Yahaba greatly appreciates. He’s all smiles and happy pats on the back; he’s brutally honest when he needs to be, and a good cheering partner.

Yes, Yahaba is grateful for Sugawara Koushi.

 

* * *

 

It’s silent in his dorm room. Watari is gone, god knows where, but Yahaba doesn’t mind the silence.

Sixteen.

The away game was a success, thanks to Sixteen.

In the last minute of the game, Iwaizumi had tossed to Kyoutani – and the latter had plowed into the end zone, winning the game by the skin of their teeth.

Kyoutani had taken off his helmet and _smiled._ It was just for one, small moment, but Yahaba caught it all.

He might’ve cheered the loudest, maybe.

Yahaba sighs, and rolls over in his bed. His body aches from catching girls and tumbling with the rest of them.

His heart aches too.

It’s dumb, really. Sixteen is becoming wildly popular, seemingly, more so every day. Girls and guys alike stop him in the hallway, despite his grumbly aura and his snappy words.

He doesn’t speak much too. Yahaba hasn’t heard him say much in class, nor to his classmates. He sits, he listens, he leaves.

Yahaba isn’t sure what he likes about him, other than knowing that he _likes_ him.

It’s his eyes, probably; but there’s something incredible about his strength, and his determination. He must really love the sport to give it his all like that.

It’s admirable.

But, it’s a fruitless crush. Yahaba has plenty of crushes; Kiyoko is beautiful, and Yachi is kind and sweet. Suga, even, is attractive.

But...Kyoutani is _alluring._

Yahaba has never had a lucky number; he’s never really had any particular emotional attachment to something so trivial.

But, he thinks, he might just have a favorite number now.

These thoughts seep into dangerous ground, so Yahaba turns in his bed, and squishes his spare pillow between his arms.

Sleep maybe, will end this all.

 

* * *

 

Fuckin’ hell, Kyoutani _cannot_ concentrate.

Goddamn, son of a bitch, mother-fucking shit uniforms, they are.

The shorts are just _so skin tight,_ so smooth, so nice- but Kyoutani can only watch one cheerleader – one, who stands out the most.

Yahaba, Kyoutani learned, is his name. It took some steady researching; a little asking around, and maybe a peek at the class roster.

 _Fuck_ those uniforms though. Fuck them, in their little uniform assholes.

The crowd cheers, but Kyoutani barely hears them. He sees Yahaba lift up a girl, effortlessly, with another cheerleader. The girl waves her pom-poms and shouts encouragements, but Kyoutani doesn’t care. He watches Yahaba’s arms instead; he watches the way they flex under the strain- he studies the sweat that falls from his brow, and the way his thighs support his strong legs. His face is pretty, and soft, set and determined.

Shit. Fuck.

Iwaizumi shouts out a few commands, and Kyoutani snaps back to attention. He looks to the linebacker ahead of him; he’s big, and round, and probably has the ability to snap bone. He should be easy to get around.

Iwaizumi calls the play – Kyoutani knows immediately that it’s going to him.

As the players move, Kyoutani twists. Iwaizumi throws the ball and Kyoutani jumps, clutching it in his arm, and _running._ Shouts and grunts ring around him, but he pushes forwards, his feet running, his body moving like a bullet. He runs as hard, and as far as he can, before the weight crushes around his torso, and he goes down.

Twenty yards, he figures. He could do better.  

He looks up from the ground through the small visor of the mask. That cheerleader is watching him, shouting, _cheering_ for _him._

Kyoutani almost forgets to stand back up again.

 

* * *

 

Another game ends – they won, barely.

The locker room is sweaty and gross, filled with exhausted college boys still hyped and excited.

“Hell yeah!” Bokuto hollers, his shirt already gone “I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

“Cause of you bro.” Kuroo coos.

“ _Omg bro.”_

“We barely won.” Iwaizumi corrects, pulling on a clean shirt, “ _Barely._ We can’t afford any more games like that if we want to make playoffs.”

“Party pooper.” Oikawa coos, “Can’t you just enjoy a victory?”

Iwaizumi hesitates, before he bites, “Whatever.”

“I think the Mad Dog deserves a pat on the back.” Tanaka grins, “Once again, ya’ passed to him and he made it a damn twenty-five yards.”

Kyoutani freezes by his locker, a towel halfway around his neck. Already the room is feeding out, the players ready to go home.

“Agreed.” Oikawa beams, “Keep playing like that, and you might get scouted.”

Kyoutani blinks, rapidly, and looks down at his locker, otherwise silent.

“Oh, oh.” Bokuto snickers, “Did any of ya’ catch that cheerleader?”

“In the booty shorts?” Oikawa gasps, “I did! He’s so fuckin’ cute!”

Kyoutani looks up, growling, “ _Shut up_.”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed! He’s totally adorable.”  Oikawa leans against Iwaizumi for emphasis.

Kuroo agrees, “Yeah man, don’t feel bad about your super-obvious-crush.”

Kyoutani pauses for a moment, before he slams his locker shut. The few members laugh, saying _no, no don’t get mad- we’re just joking-_

“That’s enough.” Iwaizumi stands, grabbing his bag, “Leave Kyoutani alone.”

Oikawa lifts his hands in a defensive manner, quipping, “Alright, alright. I’m just saying, I get why he keeps looking at him. I’m almost a little jealous, those male cheerleading uniforms are cute as hell.”

There’s a few unanimous nods; Kyoutani is still silent in the corner, festering in his own embarrassment, blinking down at his bag.

There’s a pat on his shoulder, apparently from Tanaka. He looks up to glare, but Tanaka only hands him a water bottle, smiling, “No judgement here, man.”

Kyoutani rips out of his grip, but does look up through thankful eyes in the end.

 

* * *

 

“This is a bad idea.”

“It’s _fine._ ”

“No, this is a bad idea.” Yahaba repeats, trailing behind Suga, “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?” Suga turns, “We were invited! We’re a part of the team, you know.”

“Yeah…but…”

“Besides,” Suga begins to walk again, “I heard that a certain number Sixteen is going to be there.”

In hindsight, Yahaba should feel embarrassed at the surge of excitement and _fear_ that runs from his chest to his feet. He pulls back from Suga’s grip, “No, no, this is a bad bad bad idea-“

Suga just laughs, and pulls him up and into the house where the music is loud and the lights are low. It’s already full of young adults, hooting and hollering, most underage probably. He can already spot girls from the cheerleading squad, doing shots with a few football stars on the coffee table.

It’s not the party scene that makes Yahaba nervous - he most definitely does not hate free alcohol – it’s just with _these_ people. They’re loud and rambunctious and asking for trouble. Many people here aren’t from the football team; guys and girls from other sports party too, all seeking a good time.

They’re pulled through the crowd, until a hand meets Suga’s shoulder.

“Koushi.” A broad man smiles, speaking loud above the music.

“Daichi~.” Sugawara coos, “Hey!”

“You made it.”

“ _Barely._ I had to drag Yahaba here.”

Daichi smiles, bright teeth and all, “I can understand why. You’re probably exhausted too.”

“Yeah, well-“

Yahaba turns from the conversation; Suga just keeps rocking on his heels, hands behind his back like a flirty teenager. Instead he turns to the stairs, where that troublesome Bokuto and Kuroo duo are mattress surfing.

If this turns into some kind of Project X bullshit, Yahaba is _out_ of here.

There’s shouting and yelling, all celebrating the newest win today. It was rough, but needed. They lost the game _last_ week, and can’t afford to lose any more to make playoffs.

Yahaba didn’t care too much for football before, really. In high school he was never that big of a fan; he just enjoyed cheering. But now he’s growing more interested – more invested in how good the team does. When he cheers, he _cheers,_ all heart and soul, because he _wants_ them to win.

He wants to watch Kyoutani tear past the defensive line; he wants to see Ushijima stop a two hundred and thirty-pound receiver; he wants to cheer for Oikawa when he kicks a field goal; he wants Daichi to take that ball and _run._

Speaking of Daichi.

Yahaba turns around, but the duo is nowhere to be seen. People shift and move around him, squeezing to the kitchen, or the living room. Yahaba grits his teeth and turns, shifting past the crowd and out to the backyard. There’s just as many people here, jumping in the pool and dancing.

Suga and Daichi are gone.

 _That fucker._ Yahaba curses.   _Bringing me here and leaving me all alone._

He looks around the backyard a little, before sneaking back into the house to search some more. The music pounds, and pounds, and Yahaba can’t see a damn thing.

_I’m going to kick his ass. I don’t care how drunk he is; I am literally going to kick his ass._

He feels a shove at his shoulder, so Yahaba makes his way out of the hallway. Yahaba is sure to steal some beer out of an ice chest on his way out- he’s not even drunk yet, but he might as well try. He makes it to a less-crowded room; it seems to be a game room, with a few couches and a large T.V. A few couples chatter to one another, adding to the noise, but it’s quiet enough for Yahaba.

He takes to the round black couch secluded in the left corner of the room. He sits, rubbing at his face, sighing as he snaps open the beer.

He really just wants to go home – free to wear sweatpants versus skinny jeans and stuff his face with microwaved Hot Pockets.

Unfortunately, he can’t, seeing as _Suga_ still has the car keys. He can’t even take an Uber home; Yahaba is apparently _that_ stupid to forget his wallet.

So, he’s stuck.

He lifts up his beer; a singular toast to Suga on his last night, seeing as Yahaba is going to _kill him_ tomorrow.

Nobody tries to sit on his couch, thank goodness, so Yahaba passes time by people watching. There’s a straight couple in the corner making out like two giraffes, and a few friends doing shots in the other corner. Through the door Yahaba watches people break things and laugh.

Yahaba sighs. The partying culture is so destructive.

As he sits, Yahaba would be a liar to say that he _wasn’t_ looking for Kyoutani through the crowd.

 _He’s probably not even here._ He thinks, swirling his alcohol, _I don’t think he’s the sociable party type._

Yahaba thinks he might’ve dozed off, maybe, but he’s suddenly jolted awake by a hand on his shoulder.

There’s a few frat boys, strong, but not strong enough to be football players. One gasps, a tongue ring catching light, “Hey! I knew it!”

“Huh?” Yahaba blinks.

“You’re that male cheerleader.” He grins, “Nice moves, fruitcake.”

Yahaba blinks, long and slow, before he turns away to ignore them.

“Hey! You jus’ gonna’ ignore Yuuji’s compliment like that?”

“That’s hardly a compliment.” Yahaba looks up, bored, “Do you need something?”

“Aye,” The tongue ring guy slurs, “We jus’ wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Yeah man, like, what’s it like to join the gayest sport our school has?”

They laugh, and the third guy snickers, “Oh, and how long does it take to suck every dick on the football team? Do they jus’ pass you around? Or is it a first come first serve basis?”

They laugh, obviously shiftfaced, leaning on each other as they giggle. Yahaba pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. These shitstains hardly deserve a response from him, but Yahaba is feeling _especially_ annoyed tonight.

He looks up and spits, “Twenty minutes a dick, better than you can, probably.”

“Hey!” Yuuji shouts, “You callin’ me a -“

He’s cut off by a hand, strong, and firm, gripping his arm. The Yuuji guy gasps, spinning around to spit in the face that _dared_ to touch him.

Yahaba sits up straight, and exhales.

Kyoutani digs his fingers into the tendons of Yuuji’s arm, unforgiving and strong. The latter inhales, trying to rip out of his grip as his friends _immediately_ bail. Apparently Kyoutani isn’t one to be fucked with, because that smug look on Yuuji’s face is long gone.

Kyoutani’s eyes are round, and full of heat. They’re so pointed and strong, and his voice is low as he says, “Fuck off.”

Yuuji nods, and Kyoutani lets go. The tongue-ring guy skitters away, like a wounded dog.

Yahaba stares, mouth agape at the football star standing above him. His shoulders are tense and his jaw is firm as he glares after the offenders.

Yahaba’s heart feels too big for his chest, yet he chokes out, “Um…”

Kyoutani immediately turns to look down at him- and _fuck,_ those eyes. Yahaba loses his confidence; it’s like staring into the eyes of an animal, raw, and dangerous.

Still, he clears his throat and says, “Uhm…you didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

Sixteen blinks twice, before he looks back to the doorway, “They’re idiots.”

“I know.” Yahaba sighs, “But I can always anticipate some sexist ass who doesn’t understand cheerleading.”

“It’s a physically demanding sport.” Kyoutani grits, “Just like any other. Morons.”

Yahaba breaks into a smile- Kyoutani’s voice is so nice, and warm. He’s never heard it used in full sentences before, but Yahaba already loves it.

“Just as football is.” Yahaba retorts, shifting a little on the couch, “I’m surprised you’re here, considering how tough the game was.”

“I was dragged here by my fucktard teammates.” Kyoutani sneers, his hands in his pockets, that snapback turned backwards. “Kuroo took the car keys and swallowed them, probably.”

Yahaba sputters into laughing, and grins, “Oh man, it seems as if we’re in the same boat, tonight.”

Kyoutani looks down and blinks, “You came here with friends?”

“The other male cheerleader.” he frowns, “That asshole ran off with your wide receiver and is probably fucking him somewhere in here.”

Yahaba gets the honor of making Kyoutani smile. Kyoutani breathes out a short laugh through his nose, and his eyes seem to soften, slightly. He looks back to the doorway and rolls his eyes, “M’ not surprised.”

There’s a beat of silence. The music pounds on, but Kyoutani still stands by the couch, hands in his pockets.

Yahaba decides to stand, “My name’s Yahaba Shigeru, by the way.”

Kyoutani looks at him- _through him-_ and blinks. He stares at Yahaba’s hand as it hovers between them. There’s a pang of panic in Yahaba’s chest, before Kyoutani shakes his hand.

“Kentarou Kyoutani.”

“I know.” Yahaba grins, and sits back down, “You’re famous, you know.”

Kyoutani takes a seat next to him, “Unfortunately.”

“What?” Yahaba smiles, almost giddy, “Not one for the fame?”

“I hate fake people.” Kyoutani grits. “I don’t want all the attention bullshit. I just want to play football.”

Yahaba blinks away the surprise. He presses his elbow into the armrest, leans his head in his hand, and smiles, “Did you play in high school?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“Ah, well, I can definitely tell. You’re crazy good.”

Kyoutani’s eyes stare into the side of his face, before they fall to the floor in humility, “I can do better.”

“Probably.” Yahaba shrugs, “But that’s the best part, right?”

Yahaba, once again, gets the honor of making him smile.

 

* * *

 

“No way.” Yahaba laughs, doubled over, his third beer in hand thanks to Kyoutani.

“Mhm.” His lips are pressed into a neutral line, but his eyes sparkle. “About blew off the damn ceiling.”

“Holy shit.” Yahaba cries, “What did your parents say?”

“Well, I used to live with just my dad.” He explains, “But after, you know, my sister and I tied up the babysitter and exploded half our kitchen, he passed us onto our mom.”

“Fuck, man.” Yahaba wipes away a tear, “Your sister sounds like a riot.”

“She’s an ass, is what she is.”

“At least you’re _trained_ now.”

Kyoutani snorts, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you can deal with those guys.” Yahaba jabs his thumb out towards the open door, where Bokuto and Kuroo grind against each other mercilessly, Ushijima passed out drunk at their feet.

Kyoutani sighs, “I should probably stop them.”

“Probably.” Yahaba says, but looks up and smiles. It’s _really_ late, but it feels like no time has passed.

Surprisingly, Kyoutani is good company. He’s a little reserved – just a little standoffish – a tad hesitant – but the alcohol loosens his tongue, and his eyes shine like Yahaba has never seen.

Kyoutani doesn’t make any move to get off the couch, and neither does Yahaba.

 

* * *

 

 “Alright team.” Iwaizumi claps, “Gather round.”

“Ugh.” Kuroo presses his hand to his head, “Can you like, turn it down a little?”

“Yeah man.” Bokuto hisses, “Inside voices.”

“Bokuto, we’re outside.”

“It’s not my fault you all lack self-control.” Iwaizumi crosses his arms, “You’re gonna’ do whatever coach tells you, am I clear?”

There’s some universal groaning, mostly from Oikawa in the corner.

Coach Ukai laughs, leaning up against goal post. He grins, “Sorry kiddos, but I need laps today. Gotta’ keep those bodies in shape.”

There’s some more groaning; Kyoutani stands in the back, apathetic if anything. _He’s_ not the one who almost drove a car into the pool- _that_ was Yamamoto and Tanaka.

Instead he sat on that couch all night, talking to Yahaba.

He presses his knuckles against his lips, just to hide the expression on his face. He _cannot_ believe that they actually talked. They had like, an entire fucking conversation.

Hell, they _exchanged numbers._

And _fuck_ Yahaba is even better than he imagined. His voice is honey sweet and his smile is goddamn gorgeous.

Kyoutani is totally fucked.

Coach blows his whistle and the team groans, hauling to their feet and chugging out on the field. They run beneath the sun, all in shorts and t-shirts. The most entertaining part is Tanaka and Yamamoto, stumbling over every bump in the grass and cursing the sun.

Kyoutani’s pace is steady, but as he jogs, he finds himself grouped with a crowd of his hungover teammates, blocking the way with their slow pace.

“Yeah man.” Kuroo says, breath heavy, “I don’t remember much, but when I peaked in -“

“Oh!” Oikawa cuts in, turning to Kyoutani, “Speak of the devil.”

Kyoutani blinks, taken back, and prepares to sprint- but Bokuto slaps a hand on his shoulder.

“Dude. Bro. Nice job last night.”

“What?” He grits.

“With cheerleader dude.” Kuroo grins, “We totally saw you two talking _all night~.”_

Kyoutani’s body flushes hot, and he snarls, pulling out of Bokuto’s grip, “Can you give it a rest?”

“So it worked?” Oikawa tips his head, “They talked?”

“From what I saw, anyways.”

“Wait, wait.” Kyoutani pants as they run, “What worked?”

“Oh, right.” Oikawa grins, “I bribed Terushima to cause a little trouble.”

“You _what?_ ” Kyoutani hisses, despite the laughter.

“Yeah! I mean,” Oikawa bumps against Iwaizumi has he runs, “I was busy with _Hajime_ all night, but I wasn’t about to give up a good opportunity.”

 “Don’t say my name like that.” Iwaizumi huffs,

Kyoutani sucks in an angry breath, “ _You have two seconds to explain.”_

“We got tired of your googly eyes, man.” Kuroo explains.

Oikawa nods, “Yeah, and you _obviously_ weren’t going to go talk to him, so, I figured if someone tried picking on him, you’d swoop in like a goody two-shoes Captain America - and low and behold you did!”

Kyoutani nearly stumbles over a bump in the grass, but still growls, “Are you fuckin’ serious? You had Terushima _harass Yahaba_ on the off chance that I’d show up?”

“Oh, his name is Yahaba? That’s a cute name.”

“ _Oikawa._ ” Kyoutani grits, running faster, “ _You fucker-_ “

Oikawa half laughs, and half squeaks, dodging out of his grip and almost tripping. Their jog is halted when Iwaizumi grips Oikawa by the back of the shirt and hauls him to his side. He demands, “ _Enough.”_

 _“_ But he-“

“Enough.” He repeats, “Oikawa, stop playing matchmaker. Kyoutani, if you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

Kyoutani reels back and swallows, his face still angry, but his body further away from Oikawa. Oikawa peeks out his tongue from behind Iwaizumi, and Kyoutani grinds his teeth together. Bokuto and Kuroo laugh, and laugh, until Ukai calls from across the field _Hey! Move it!_

And they do, eventually, after Kyoutani has finished blushing and hissing, and after the upperclassmen have stopped laughing.

 

* * *

 

Yahaba’s phone buzzes on his bedside drawer, and Watari nearly jumps out of his skin. He spins around in his chair, grinning like a school girl, “What did he say?!”

Yahaba picks up his phone, and grins too, “None of your damn business.”

“Oh come _on._ ”

“We’re talking about school.” Yahaba says as he texts.

“Pfff.” Watari sputters, “You’re horrible at flirting.”

“I’m not _trying_ to flirt.” Yahaba huffs, “Well, maybe a little, but still.”

“Is he a good texter?”

Yahaba smiles to himself, holding his phone to his chest, “S _ometimes_ he uses emojis.”

“He. Does. _Not._ ”

“He does!” Yahaba giggles, “It’s adorable and I want to marry him.”

“Do you think he’s into guys?” Watari spins his chair.

Yahaba breathes in, and jolts when his phone buzzes again.

“I…” Yahaba blinks, “I really don’t know. I think he…” He looks down at his mismatched socks, “…I think he just wants a friend.”

“Well don’t sell yourself short.” Watari lectures, “Not until you know for sure.”

Yahaba’s thumbs hover over his phone, and he swallows before he nods.

 

* * *

 

He grows the confidence to sit next to Kyoutani in Calc that next Monday. Kyoutani just gives him a short nod, and turns his head back to the instructor. It’s not until after class that Yahaba really understands Kyoutani’s words from last week. It’s not until he sees Kyoutani stopped in the hallway, does Yahaba realize just how popular Kyoutani has grown.

“Wow, really?” A girl twirls her hair around her finger. She is rather cute, and probably sweeter than hell – but even Yahaba can see the extra pep in her step, and the shimmer in her eye, “You have _no_ plans this weekend?”

“No.” Kyoutani grits, somewhat politely. “Just practice.”

“You should come over then.” She smiles, “We’re having a party!”

“No thanks.”

“It’ll be super fun!”

“I’m good.”

Yahaba decides to turn on his heel – but he does watch more people gather, cooing him and pestering for his attention.

Yahaba walks down the hallway, halfway tempted to rescue the poor guy.

 _“I hate fake people.”_ Kyoutani had said.

Well, Yahaba can understand that.

Still, he looks over his shoulder, an almost jealous feeling building in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

“Oh come on.” Suga sniffs as he stretches, “You have to forgive me some day.”

“Someday.” Yahaba agrees, “But not this day.”

“ _Yahabaaaa._ ” He pouts, “I already said I was super sorry. We honestly didn’t mean to abandon you.”

Yahaba stretches his arms high above his head, and eyes Kyoutani from across the field. He’s keeping up with the others, doing the hellish burpees in a row. Goddamn he's so hot.

Yahaba rolls back his shoulders and sighs, “You’ll make it up to me.”

“Oh yeah, totally. I’ll buy you dinner – Chinese, Korean, whatever you want.”

Yahaba purposefully lifts an eyebrow, eyes lidded and unimpressed.

Suga sputters, “T-two dinners.”

“Okay.” Yahaba smiles, and returns to his stretch.

“You’re a manipulative little thing, aren’t you?”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

“Oh my god!” Suga laughs, “Don’t snatch my weave like that.”

Yahaba laughs too, until Saeko yells from across the field, “Shigeru! Sugawara! Are you stretched out?”

“Y-yes coach!” They stutter to their feet, still grinning like children.

There’s eyes behind him – Yahaba can feel them, but he resists the urge to turn. The back of his neck burns, but he keeps his eyes on coach – his eyes on cheerleading.

He’ll text Kyoutani later.

 

* * *

 

Kyoutani sits under his favorite tree, the sun shimmering through the leaves. His textbook rests at his knees, but he focuses more on his phone. It buzzes, and Kyoutani’s heart lurches a little more.

_Received: 4:45 pm_

_I saw at the game last week ;)) there were a bunch of girlies singing ur name in the stands mr popular_

Kyoutani swallows, and resists the pitiful urge to text back immediately. He’s not sure how he’s gotten here; how he’s grown used to seeing Yahaba in class, and at the fields. How he’s taken to texting Yahaba every day, about dumb, senseless things.

He’s not even sure why Yahaba continues to text him _back._

A part of him is hesitant; the more games he wins, the more people come up to him, all smiles and fake teeth behind fake words. It’s almost like a game, to them.

Who can tame the mad dog?

Well, the dog is already tamed, it seems.

Kyoutani thumbs over his phone, curled against that tree, and breathes in. Yahaba doesn’t seem like the type to seek after popularity and social status. There’s something raw about him; in his soft hair and his pretty eyes.

Kyoutani remembers to text back.

_Sent: 4:50 pm_

_God, it was fuckin embarrassing_

_Received: 4:52 pm_

_Why!!!? You’re hella popular, why dontcha take advantage of it?_

_Sent: 4:59 pm_

_I don’t care, and I don’t have time to care_

_Received: 5:03 pm_

_You have time to text me_ _∠(_ _ᐛ_ _」_ _∠)_ _＿_

 

Kyoutani snorts out loud, nearly sputtering.

_Sent: 5:04 pm_

_A little full of yourself, aren’t you?_

_Received: 5:06 pm_

_Maybe a little! Am I bothering you though?_

_Sent: 5:09 pm_

_No ;o_

_Sent 5:10 pm_

_Just studying_

_Received: 5:11pm_

_Ah~ well, would it be a bother to ask you out for coffee? All my friends have ditched me for Oikawa’s stupid party ;((_

Kyoutani swallows, blinking down at his phone. Right, okay. This is what friends do. _Chill._

He forces his breathing steady- forces himself to breathe under the warmth of the afternoon sun.

_Sent: 5:14_

_Alright._

Unbeknownst to him, Yahaba is currently _not_ alone, instead, cheering in his dorm room with both Watari, _and_ Suga hovering over his shoulder, grinning at Kyoutani’s agreement.

 

* * *

 

They make it to the playoffs. Kyoutani plays, and Yahaba cheers.

The clock rolls, and the games continue.

Yahaba falls farther and farther down the rabbit hole.

Kyoutani isn’t _just_ hot. He isn’t _just_ talented, or strong. He’s also a sweet gentleman; he holds doors, and car doors, and tucks his napkin in his lap, and _always_ tips the waiter. He always listens to Yahaba ramble, elbow on the table, head in his hand. His voice is low and raspy, and his laugh even more so. His body is warm and beautiful and Yahaba wants to lick every single square inch of it until it belongs to him.

But, Yahaba can’t do that.

They’re friends. Yahaba is confident enough to call them that.

He shoos Watari out of the dorm on Sundays, letting Kyoutani in to watch movies and study. They go out for drinks, and talk on the field after practice.

Kyoutani trusts him.

Kyoutani _trusts him_ not to take advantage of their friendship, and what he’s become.

“ _The Mad Dog.”_

He’s become more of a posterchild, than anything. The school adores him of course, the idea of this beast blowing through the defensive line like a bull. The school might just change their mascot, for him, but Kyoutani couldn’t care less about his face on a poster, or the cheering at games.

Yahaba thinks that might be what he adores most about him.

“Stop!” Yahaba giggles, “That’s weird.”

“What, this?” Kyoutani crosses his eyes once more, and Yahaba laughs again, a little giggly from the massive amount of sugar they’ve inhaled.

He plays around with the packet of Fundip, and nibbles on the end of the candy stick, grinning, “Your eyes’ll get stuck like that, you know.”

“That’s not true.” Kyoutani smirks, and opens another packet of Pocky.

“You never know! That might be how Mr. J got his lazy eye.”

Kyoutani sputters out a laugh, nearly dropping the Pocky. His leg stretches out and across pages of forgotten homework and half eaten wrappers, all on Kyoutani’s bed. He looks up to Yahaba and smirks, “So, tell me then. Which eye do _you_ look at when you talk to him?”

“His right one!” Yahaba laughs, squeezing his pajama-clad knees to his chest, “That’s the right one, yeah?”

“Honest to god, I thought it was the left.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Yahaba sputters, snickering, a hand over his mouth, “I gotta’ apologize on Monday.”

“Mr. J is a good guy. He probably doesn’t care.”

“True.”

Yahaba squirms back, his spine resting against the wall Kyoutani’s bed is pushed against. It’s late, Kyoutani’s roommate gone to a party. Yahaba and Kyoutani were invited too – but it was a unanimous decision to stay in, happy to watch bad movies and inhale junk food.

Yahaba looks up at Kyoutani from across his bed. His hair is a little ruffled, those strange black lines a little jagged now. The dark under his eyes has lessened, his eyes looking a little brighter and happier than usual. His focus turns to the History Channel documentary playing, his head tipped, amusingly similar to a dog.

Yahaba resists a sigh; it’d be _so_ easy to cross the distance – to press a firm kiss to the skin of his cheek.

Yahaba’s eyes fall down the back of his neck where it dips behind the collar of his old washed out t-shirt, the muscles of his back pulling a little at the fabric.

Fuck, he’s so ridiculously attractive.

Yahaba swallows, and washes the blind desire down the metaphorical drain. He licks around the end of the candy stick, and listens when Kyoutani turns to speak.

“Hey, did you see that?” Kyoutani points to the T.V., “That was the aliens guy.”

Hilariously enough, Yahaba knows exactly what he’s talking about. He laughs, and folds his knees to his chest, content just to sit here, in his kind bedroom.

His heart hurts a little bit, but it’s fine; Kyoutani’s shirt is riding up, showing off the warm skin of his hip, and that’s honestly enough to get Yahaba through the week.

 

* * *

 

By now, Kyoutani just expects the pestering.

He sighs, a towel around his neck, his body fatigued and screaming for rest. He sits on the bench, and ignores Bokuto as he jumps onto the bench next to him.

“Dude, bro. Kyoutani. My man. Gimmie the details.”

“There are no details, Bokuto.”

“You guys have been talking for like, two months.” Oikawa sneers, “Don’t tell me my super awesome matchmaking plan went to waste.”

Kyoutani glares, “I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

“So what, then?” Tanaka props a hand on his hip, “You kick me out of the room every Friday. You guys _aren’t_ fucking?”

“No!” He sputters.

Kuroo rolls his eyes, “Vanilla~. Just make a move, Kyouken.”

The younger sighs, and leans across the short distance to smack his head against the lower locker. “Can we not fucking talk about this? Just for once?”

“If you ask him out, I’m sure he will say yes.” Ushijima pipes, half-dressed already.

Kyoutani points, “ _Don’t_ get involved in this.”

Ushijima holds up his hands defensively, and his teammates laugh. Kyoutani bangs his forehead against the locker once more.

“Hey, man. Don’t be afraid.”

“M’ not afraid _._ ” He growls, an obvious lie.

He is scared, actually, _terrified_ of the idea of fucking up their friendship.

Yahaba has been good, and kind to him-

-but god, is Kyoutani pining after him like a Cinderella story.

He feels a pat on the back, and he closes his eyes, not even bothering to see who it was. If anything, a very teeny, tiny, small part of himself appreciates the support from his team.

Oikawa shoots him a worried glance from across the locker room, but does leave, his hand tangled with Iwaizumi’s.

 

* * *

 

This is it.

Countless games have landed them here, the end of the school year, and the football season. These are the quarterfinals; they’ve played, and played. Yahaba has screamed and cheered for his team, growing more and more attached.

His muscles have learned- they lift girls with skill. He twirls with a refinement he didn’t have before. He tucks and rolls and cartwheels as good as the rest of them, all for this. To be _here._

The stadium roars with excitement, the seats jostling with heavy pounding. Yahaba looks up and around at the big screens, light and shimmery with sponsors.

Yahaba’s eyes seek out Kyoutani -it’s a natural response, by now. He’s on the bench, watching, waiting for his turn to play. Their defense is doing a fine job; Ushijima leads them with power and authority, just as Iwaizumi does for their offense.

There’s the sound of a whistle, and muscle hitting muscle. Yahaba shouts and jumps in sync with the girls, Sugawara at the other end of the line.

“ _Let’s go defense let’s go!”_

It’s a good game so far. They’re five minutes past halftime, and the score is a heavy 21: 27.

They’re behind, but not by far.

When the offense rolls onto the court, Yahaba cheers with a newfound fire and spirit. He sees Kyoutani meet his eyes, and he smiles, wide, and ecstatic, and Kyoutani smiles back.

 

* * *

 

This is it.

After today, they’ll win the game. They’ll win, and Kyoutani will finally, _finally_ find the courage to ask Yahaba out. He’s already made up his mind. For sure, today.

Iwaizumi barks out the play, and Kyoutani’s eyes widen. He’s throwing to him. _Now_ is his chance.

He gets the ball and pushes, tearing past defense and making the next down. The crowd hollers loud- they’re away, but their own fans are here too. He can hear his name on the speakers, and he takes the hand offered to him, rising sorely to his feet.

They’ll win this game. They _have_ to.

The next play goes to Bokuto. He runs fast, the bastard, ripping out of the grip of a large upperclassmen. The ball fumbles- Daichi scoops it up, thank god.

One touchdown, then two. There’s field goals, but the other team is always _one_ step ahead.

Kyoutani perseveres.

He looks to Yahaba, the beautiful soul, glowing under the lights and the sky. It’s turned dark now, but Kyoutani can still see the shimmery cheerleading shorts, and the genuine smile on Yahaba’s face.

The weight on his shoulders lightens. He looks to his team; _his_ team.

They’ll win together, but _he_ will win for Yahaba.

 

* * *

 

It’s the fourth quarter; it’s crunch time.

Suga and Yahaba lift up a girl and twirl as the offense joins the field once more.

They’re 35:42. If only they could get _one more_ touchdown, and kick that field goal, then they could tie. They’ve pushed, and pushed, and if only they could push a _little_ more.

Iwaizumi calls the play, and the ball flies. Yahaba cheers, dropping the girl safely, and returning to formation, like they’ve practiced.

Kyoutani catches the ball – thank fuck – and he runs.

“Go!!” Yahaba shouts, out of sync with the others. “Go!”

Kyoutani jerks on his feet, fast, like a bullet. He twists past a linebacker, and springs the long distance towards the end zone.

They jump, and cheer. The stands roar as Kyoutani gets closer.

But it’s all taken away, oh, so quickly.

Out of nowhere, a defensive player smashes into Kyoutani _way_ too hard. He rolls off his feet, jolting, smashing his shoulder and his head into the grass. Still, he holds the ball tight, before he stops rolling.

Yahaba’s heart sinks to his feet, and his mouth falls open with unsaid words. The refs call the play, but Kyoutani still doesn’t move from his sprawled, twisted position on the floor.

Iwaizumi is the one that reacts first, ripping off his own helmet, and falling to his knees beside Kyoutani. He carefully unsnaps Kyoutani’s helmet, already moving faster than the paramedics. The stadium plays music, but the stands are filled with hushed chatter.

Yahaba’s mouth runs dry; Kyoutani _still_ isn’t moving.

Iwaizumi prods around his head for injury, and argues with the paramedics as he’s told to jolt back. It’s Oikawa that gently nudges him away, letting the professionals check Kyoutani for serious damage.

Relief floods through Yahaba at an unhealthy rate when Kyoutani opens his eyes. He’s urged onto a stretcher, but he insists he walk, a paramedic holding the back of his head carefully. On the big screen, Yahaba can see blood.

“ _A concussion._ ” The announcer says, “ _But number sixteen will be fine. It seems the Mad Dog is out. How will the Panthers recover?”_

 _They won’t._ Yahaba thinks, sickly, as he watches Oikawa gently comb across Iwaizumi’s hair, calming him down with kind words.

_They won’t._

The timer runs out, the clock turns. Kyoutani gets shipped off to a hospital, and the game slips between their fingers.

 

* * *

 

He waits the next day, patiently, in the waiting room of the hospital. Sugawara insists he wait with him- but Yahaba tells him no – tells him to enjoy his day with Daichi.

The hospital smells like floor cleaner and antibacterial wipes, a nauseating combination. The waiting room clock has an odd tick, occasionally ticking a little louder every thirtieth second. Yahaba knows, because he’s been counting.

Tick Tick Tick _Tick_ Tick Tick-

He perks up when he sees a few people leave Kyoutani’s room - a few other team members that came to say hi.

“You can go in, Mr. Shigeru.” The nurse finally nods, and Yahaba scurries to his feet.

His night was restless – as Kyoutani’s was, he’s sure. He just _couldn’t_ wipe away the shock – he couldn’t get over not seeing him, not texting him, not communicating in any way.

He presses his fingers into the cold swell of the doorway, and peeks into the room. Kyoutani is sitting up, that pout on his lips, staring out the window with glaring eyes. His shoulder is wrapped, as is his head. Yahaba sucks in a breath; he looks torn up, but okay.

Thank the lord.

He summons a smile, and taps his knuckle against the wood of the door, “Knock knock?”

Kyoutani’s head spins, eyes darting to drink Yahaba in.

“Yahaba?”

“Hey, sleepy pants.” Yahaba smiles, closing the door behind him. “I came by last night, but you were asleep.”

“I-I was?”

“Yep.” Yahaba smiles, “Which is good. How do you feel?”

“I…” Kyoutani blinks, forming words before speaking them. “I’m fine.”

Yahaba breathes in, and folds his hands behind his back. His skin crawls with anxiety, his lungs not filling enough air. He wants to _kiss him,_ oh how he wants to kiss him. He wants to make it all better- wipe the pain from his body forever.

“Thank goodness.” Yahaba breathes out, “You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, “It’s just a minor concussion. I’ll be out tonight.”

“And your shoulder?”

“Strained is all.”

Yahaba lets out another gush of air, and smiles, taking a seat in the chair across his hospital bed, “What a relief.”

“Yeah…” Kyoutani trails off, and looks back to the window with solemn eyes.

“Did uh…” Yahaba begins, “…did your team come by?”

“Yep.”

“Tell you about the game?”

“…Yeah.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Yahaba declares, “You couldn’t possibly-“

“It _was._ ” Kyoutani glares, eyes narrowed, “I should’ve seen that hit. If I wasn’t put out, we might’ve won.”

“You don’t carry the team alone.” Yahaba says with passion, “You win together, you lose together. Isn’t that what Iwaizumi always says?”

Kyoutani swallows down a smile, “How did you know that?”

Yahaba grins, “I’ve overheard a passionate speech or two.”

Kyoutani goes silent once more. His eyes flicker through several emotions – his eyes truly windows to the soul. Yahaba considers changing the subject, but Kyoutani gives a hefty sigh, eyes turning down in defeat, “Yahaba…why are you here?”

A pause.

“W-what?”

“Why did you come here?” Kyoutani looks up.

“What?” Yahaba repeats again, “Why-“

“Are you after something?” Kyoutani looks up, his eyes saying too much – too full of color that Yahaba can’t resist. “What do you want?”

Yahaba sucks in a sharp breath, words jumbling in his head, a hurried mess as he says, “You must’ve hit your head pretty damn hard, huh?”

Kyoutani’s jaw falls.

“I dunno’ if you forgot or not, but we’re friends here, buddy.” Yahaba gestures to himself, “You think I’m after something?”

“I…” Kyoutani trails off.

“Well.” Yahaba swallows, a swell of emotion and courage clogging his throat, “I guess…you’d be kind of right.”

Kyoutani looks up with a bark, “What do you mean?”

Yahaba’s eyes fall to the swell of his worn out Vans. He blinks, long and slow, before he looks up again with newfound purpose and a half laugh. There’s another confused pause, the room a whirlwind of mixed emotions. There’s a heart monitor that beeps from the next room, filling in the white noise.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Yahaba rubs at his eyes and swallows, saying anyways, “God, Kyou. I have such a big crush on you. A huge one. A big ol’ fat one.”

Kyoutani’s eyes open wide - wider than Yahaba’s ever seen. His mouth opens, and closes, but Yahaba spills on.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs, “I just…I really like you. I don’t really have any other motive than that. I’m here because I _care_ about you. Because my heart literally stopped yesterday.”

It goes silent. That heart monitor beeps on.

Kyoutani still isn’t saying a damned thing – and the reality of what Yahaba just said crashes down.

“Oh fuck.” Yahaba presses a hand against his forehead, “You have a concussion, and I just told you that. You might not even remember tomorrow. Oh my god.”

“Yahaba-“

“You know, I’m going to go. I’m going to-“

“ _Wait._ ” Kyoutani hisses, shifting to move out of bed, “Wait-“

“No no!” Yahaba scurries across the room, gently prodding at his chest to set him back in the bed, “Don’t move! Idiot!”

“Wait.” Kyoutani repeats, “Don’t, don’t go. Don’t.”

“Kyou, I’m embarrassed as hell, here. Please, just let me-“

“I have been _pining_ after you since the season started.” Kyoutani says, in one breath, eyes looking up with a newfound determination that Yahaba adores. “Like, the worst kind. Like, the I can’t stop thinking about you _ever -_ kind of pining.”

Yahaba freezes, one hand on the rail of the hospital bed, the other hovering over Kyoutani’s chest.

“You…really?”

“God, yeah.” Kyoutani breathes out, almost defeated, “You’re so- you’re just…the uniforms…and…you’re _so_ pretty I-“ He takes in a deep breath, and tries again, “You’ve got me whipped. Thrown through dirt, you’ve got me.”

Impossible.

Yahaba takes a moment to _breathe_ before he giggles, his hovering hand rising to cover his mouth. “Unbelievable.”

“I know.” He grits, “You’re the most _distracting_ thing ever. I can hardly look over at you during practice.”

Yahaba laughs more, relief falling from his head to his toes, “Same. I can honestly say the same.”

Kyoutani looks up to him and smiles- not one with teeth, but one small, and so earnest it hurts.

He states, “Yahaba, if I can’t get out of this bed, you better kiss me.”

Yahaba laughs more, because this is all so _funny._ The texting, the study dates, the coffee runs – the after practice talks, the conversations during math class.

They were both fools.

“You’ll get in trouble with the staff.” Yahaba says with a smile, already leaning halfway over the bed to hover in Kyoutani’s space.

“They can suck my ass.” Kyoutani replies, reaching up with his good arm to tug Yahaba down more. Their lips meet firm, and warm, fitting like a lock and key. Yahaba sucks in a surprised breath through his nose, gripping hard onto the bed railing.

And then Yahaba is gone. Gone, forever, gone under kisses that he didn’t know he _needed_ so badly.

They’re wet and warm and full of tiny gasps. The desire to be close – to draw near to him – it’s so overwhelming it almost hurts. He wants to crawl into Kyoutani’s lap; to wrap his arms around his waist and be _close,_ be together, to make up for all the time they weren’t.

Their kisses break, but they join back together, soft, and slow. Kyoutani is an excellent kisser, and Yahaba can’t say he’s too bad himself; together they work well, just the right amount of sloppy and needy.

Kyoutani’s hand in his hair is firm, and strong, and it pulls, dipping Yahaba’s head to deepen the kiss.

 _This_ is what Yahaba needed. Cheerleading, football games, and college drama be damned.

It’s young; it’s simple; it’s so full of hope, they are. A young relationship now filled with promise for the future, to learn each other and learn together.

There’s a gasp from the doorway.

“No way!”

Yahaba nearly falls back, yanking away, and stumbling.

Oikawa grins from the doorway, Bokuto and Kuroo trying to peek around his frame.

“Yo!!!” Bokuto hoots, “Finally!”

“Finally?” Yahaba gasps out in question.

“ _Finally!_ ” Bokuto repeats, “Oh my god, I totally won the bet!”

Kyoutani presses his face into his hands, and sighs.

“Bokuto, shut up.” Iwaizumi grits, now here too, “We’re in a hospital.”

“Oop. Sorry.”

“Ahh, I see how it is.” Kuroo smirks, “Just took a little injury for you two to get your asses into gear.”

“Yeah.” Oikawa grins, “Making out in a hospital? Kinky.”

“Oh, you are _so_ not allowed to talk.” Bokuto laughs, “We all know you and Iwaizumi have shower sex after practice.”

It’s _Iwaizumi’s_ face that reddens, now, as Oikawa laughs.

“Hey! We _tried_ being subtle.”

“Oikawa, you wouldn’t know subtle if it smacked you in the face.”

Yahaba’s face slowly begins to cool as he watches Iwaizumi physically chase them out of the doorway. He is surprised, however, to see Ushijima peak in, give a single thumbs up, and then disappear.

Yahaba blinks once, twice, and then laughs, turning to Kyoutani to laugh even more.

A real disaster, this day is.

A real, beautiful disaster.

 

* * *

 

Kyoutani’s head heals, as does the sting from the recent loss.

It gives them time; time to heal, time to focus on school, time to focus on _each other –_

It was needed.

Their first date is at their city’s history museum. It’s fun, in memory of all the days they sat watching the History Channel together. They walk hand in hand, silently mumbling to each other, sweet and happy.

Word of their relationship courses through the school quickly; it’s to be expected, really. They get caught in Kuroo’s snapchat story, making out underneath the school bleachers.

Yahaba is then known as _He Who Tamed the Mad Dog._

But, Yahaba doesn’t really think of it that way. It’s more like, he accidentally stumbled his way into the Mad Dog’s life, and stayed there through stubborn devotion.

The attention fades; the fake smiles leave; Kyoutani smiles more, in turn.

The school year turns, but the loss pushes them on. Pushes them to be better next year.

 

* * *

 

A lazy Sunday is what they really needed.

Yahaba’s room is nice and cozy, his sheets washed and smelling like lavender.

He lays atop Kyoutani, drawing circles into his stomach with his index finger, propped on his forearms. He presses a single kiss against his abdomen, and about swoons when he feels the muscle flex against his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Kyoutani props himself up on his elbows to look down.

“The best thing ever.” Yahaba responds, and places another kiss. The muscles twitch reactively; they’re strong, and defined. Yahaba is pretty sure he could feel the indents with his mouth if he wanted to. In fact, he thinks he might do that-

-but Kyoutani grips him from underneath his elbows, and hauls him up as if he’s nothing but air. Yahaba gasps out a laugh, falling back down on his chest, their noses bumping against each other.

“Hey!”

“You were too far.” He mumbles, and buries his nose behind Yahaba’s neck. The latter shivers, and shifts in his arms. Strong hands soothe down his back, and pull him close.

“You’re just a big cuddle bear.” Yahaba thinks aloud, “A big fluffy one.” He pokes his cheek, “All you’ve got is stuffing in here.”

“I could probably lift you above my head, if I wanted to.”

“And that’s sexy as fuck.” Yahaba replies, “But you’re also a marshmallow. Don’t deny it.”

“M’ not.” He mumbles against his ear, “You made me a marshmallow.”

Yahaba’s smile splits his face, and he shuffles back to force Kyoutani into a soft kiss – and _oh_ how wonderful is that – how wonderful is it that Kyoutani instinctually melts beneath him, all that strength turning to liquid gold.

Yahaba leans his weight on his left arm, and brings his right to brace underneath Kyoutani’s head. It’s an especially intimate gesture, their bodies pressing as close as they possibly could. Kyoutani props a knee up and shifts, probably to get Yahaba’s weight off his groin, but Yahaba doesn’t bother to move.

Their mouths slick and slide, soft, then firm, diverse in their mood swings.

Yahaba leans back to smirk, “You know,” he kisses his nose, “we’re a walking, breathing cliché.”

Kyoutani tries to be dispassionate, rubbing his nose, “If you do that again, yeah.”

“I’m serious!” Yahaba laughs, “The hot football jock hooking up with the cheerleader?”

Kyoutani sputters, “We’re far from cliché.”

“How so?”

“I, for one, am not a _jock._ ” He growls, “And you’re hardly the stereotypical Gretchen Wieners.”

Yahaba gasps, shooting up and onto his hands, braced beside Kyoutani’s head in the sheets. “Holy shit!” He shouts, “Was that a Mean Girls reference?”

Kyoutani chooses to stay silent, even as Yahaba lowers back down to laugh, “Holy shit!”

“I _have_ a sister, you know.”

“I know.” Yahaba grins, “But now I’m gonna’ make you watch _all_ the good chick flicks. Fired Up and Whip It are on the list.”

“Seen both.”

“Never leave me.” Yahaba coos, and earns a laugh from Kyoutani.

Their bodies roll; Kyoutani flips them with ease, bringing them back into their kiss once more. Yahaba sighs against him, his body arching and rolling with newfound fire. Kyoutani is _such_ a good kisser, driven by passion and desire and skill.

Yahaba is now free to bring his hands into Kyoutani’s hair and rake his nails against his head. Kyoutani nearly purrs, his head lolling, falling down as Yahaba massages through the small hairs on his neck.

Yahaba smiles through their kiss and hooks a leg around his ass, forcing them to grind together. Kyoutani’s breath catches, but his body melts through instinct and practice.

“Hah-hh-“ Yahaba breathes against his mouth, and welcomes a tongue that prods against his lips. It’s wet and messy, as French kisses are, but Yahaba is totally free to grind against him now, and feel Kyoutani’s hardon against his own.

They’ve fooled around a lot in their few months of dating; Yahaba has learned that Kyoutani is talented with _both_ his mouth _and_ his fingers, in more ways than one.

He’s also a champion at eating ass, so, he’s totally a keeper.

Yahaba writhes beneath him, radiating smugness and glee at what _he_ has. It’s all his – Kyoutani is all there for Yahaba’s taking.

So he takes, and takes, kissing him with equal skill. Kyoutani _burns_ him; burns his body, every kiss and shift sending trembles through Yahaba’s spine- running his body warm – turning him on beyond belief. He _yearns_ for him – it’s borderline pathetic, but Yahaba couldn’t care less.

Their lips part with an especially lewd smack, and they both breathe out a laugh through their noses.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Kyoutani jokes, squirming a hand between their bodies, “Is that a screwdriver?”

“I’m hard as hell, okay?” Yahaba laughs, “Don’t make fun of me. I’ve been blue ballin’ ever since Tanaka walked in on us last we- _eeek-_ “ he groans, suddenly, as Kyoutani flicks open the button to his pants and squirms his hand between them, just to feel for himself.

Kyoutani hums, palming him once, and then pushing his fingers up to drag Yahaba’s shirt to his collarbone. He speaks against his ear, “You didn’t just jerk off when you got home?”

“Dude, I was _seconds_ away from spraying the goddamn ceiling when Tanaka walked in.” Yahaba says through his teeth, grinding up against Kyoutani’s thigh, “You think rubbing one out in the shower was gonna’ fix that?”

Yahaba can feel Kyoutani laugh, rather than see it. He feels his shirt tug up once more, so Yahaba sits up to let Kyoutani pop it off completely.

“No.” Kyoutani responds, sinking back down to kiss down his sternum, “Sorry about that, still.”

“Yeah.” Yahaba tries to sound vaguely upset, but it’s nearly impossible. Kyoutani is _so_ fucking hot, shirtless, his jeans low on his hips, crouched between Yahaba’s legs to suck hickeys into his hip bones.  He looks down, and sniffs, “Well, you’re gonna’ fuck me tonight, right?”

Kyoutani looks up through his eyelashes, but doesn’t move. “Uh, yeah. Um.” He blinks, “Yeah, that’s is uh, something I can do.”

Yahaba tips his head back and laughs, “Dork.”

“Nerd.” Kyoutani replies almost immediately, and hooks his fingers into Yahaba’s belt loops, yanking off his jeans in one swoop. His boxer briefs come off next, his dick springing free, hard against his hip.

“Damn.” Kyoutani replies, and swoops down to kiss against the exposed head, “You gonna’ last?”

“Pff, no.” Yahaba looks through his eyelashes and grins, wickedly smug, “But I have a good refractory period.”

Kyoutani’s entire body seizes. He looks up, his eyes so full of desire and heat that the teasing mood seems to darken immediately. Whatever other snarky thing Yahaba planned on saying dies in his throat, and he swallows hard. Kyoutani stares up at him, his mouth hovering above his cock, which throbs mercilessly.

The pause stretches on long enough for Yahaba to grow nervous under the heat of his eyes.

Kyoutani jerks up suddenly, sliding his strong, muscled body up to reach around and pull Yahaba’s hair, bringing their mouths together searing and hurried. Yahaba groans, eyes rolling back, disgustingly pliant.

“So many times.” Kyoutani kisses against him, “I’ll make you come _so many times.”_

 _“Please._ ” Yahaba begs, finally, growing harder because of _Kyoutani._ It’s just…Kyoutani. He’s the world’s biggest turn on; his body smells like a deep natural cologne- the kind of smell a husky lumberjack would be. His mouth tastes even better- and his body is so sculptured and possessive, hovering with power.

The mood swing is enough to give Yahaba whiplash; a hurried mess of limbs to find lube. Kyoutani kisses him once, long, and hard, before he flips Yahaba onto his stomach, presses his hand against his upper back, and works a finger into his ass.

“ _Holy fu~uck.”_ Yahaba’s voice cracks, his brow twisting against his pillow, and his cock throbbing between his legs, “ _Shit._ ”

Kyoutani kneels, nipping at the skin of his lower thighs, and working in a second finger. The angle is perfect; there’s no resistance, and no messy twist of limbs. Kyoutani knows what he’s doing, damn him, and Yahaba can’t really breathe. His body accepts every twist and curl, and shivers from the exposedness of it all.

“Kentarou.” He hisses, “ _Kentarou.”_

“Hold on.” Kyoutani presses his fingers in slow, and hard, before spreading them to safely stretch him. “Can’t rush this.”

“I had three in like two days ago.” Yahaba muffles against the pillow, “Hurry up.”

The fingers freeze, as does the mouth against his hip, before there's a small, choked off groan. The fingers continue to thrust, now a little more purposeful than before. Still, Yahaba doesn’t get exactly what he wants- Kyoutani forces him pliant – forces him still like this, just for a moment, just for this short, short moment.

Yahaba grits his teeth and bears it all. He hates not being able to see Kyoutani; he hates that he can’t feel his weight at his back, and his mouth on his – but Kyoutani adds a third finger and _twists,_ and Yahaba muffles a sob into the pillow.

He comes, his cock squished against the mattress, crying out half broken attempts at Kyoutani’s name. His body shivers, and twists, rocking back onto those fingers.

There’s a pause as Yahaba pants, sucking in wet breaths, trying to come back to the real world.

“Fuck.” Kyoutani mumbles behind him, “Unfair.”

“ _I’m unfair?_ ” Yahaba laughs, “ _You,_ sir, are the definition of unfair.”

“You’re beautiful.” Kyoutani explains, “In your own way.”

“Gee, thanks.” Yahaba says, “Fuck me, please.”

There’s a half laugh behind him, before hands hook beneath him, and flip him onto his back once more. Yahaba blinks away the whiplash and the after-glow, and looks up at Kyoutani’s body, now naked, and _fucking_ gorgeous, damn. He kneels, pressing his fingers into Yahaba’s thighs and spreading them wide.

Yahaba narrows his eyes, “Missionary? Really?”

“Sorry.” Kyoutani says with no real intent on apologizing, “I wanna’ see your face.”

“Pff.” Yahaba jokes, “I’m a _cheerleader._ Missionary sex is a _grievous_ misuse of my powers.”

“Oh yeah?” Kyoutani looks down, and smirks, sharp eyes burning Yahaba’s blood. He shifts forwards, his cock dragging slightly against Yahaba’s ass – and Yahaba keens.

“ _Nn,_ yeah, b-but I mean, whatever floats your b- _oaaa-t-_ “ he gasps, as arms hook under his knees, and draw them upwards. Kyoutani slides up, his face now near Yahaba’s, his lubed cock sliding halfway in, Yahaba’s knees by his ears.

“Like this, then?” Kyoutani asks, in a strained tone.

Yahaba gasps, and gargles, his head throwing back, the angle _fabulous_ as Kyoutani sinks fully in. The stretch burns away – the position hardly strains his back, his knees pushing up without resistance.

“Wow, you are stretchy.” Kyoutani huffs, before he thrusts back, and slams in.

“ _Fuck, fuck._ ” Yahaba gasps, arms reaching up to find leverage around the edge of the mattress, “ _Hhhah-“_  

Kyoutani doesn’t go slow – but Yahaba doesn’t ask him to.

Number sixteen. The Mad Dog. The strong football player that tears past men; Yahaba feels every inch, every _muscle_ of that power above him, hips snapping in a rhythm that should be illegal.

“Hnn, _Kyouu._ ” Yahaba pants, body forced plaint, “ _Kyou._ ” He’s hard again – it’s impossible not to be.

He gets a low groan in response. It’s rumbly, and deep, and it reverberates through Yahaba’s thighs, down his chest, between his legs. He grips the mattress between his fingers and holds the fuck on, Kyoutani’s arms still hooked under his knees.

This, here, is their first time together, but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like they’ve done it for _years,_ a lock and key turning together so practiced and knowing.

Kyoutani learns him quickly; learns which way to twist and thrust, learns how to suck at the junction of Yahaba’s neck as he moans lewd and broken. There’ll be a noise complaint, probably, but Kyoutani will deal with that in the morning.

Yahaba drools out heavy breaths and nonsense, faintly quiet, face red, body arching into him. Kyoutani’s body is firm and strong as he fucks him so good, so, so good.

Thighs meet thighs; Kyoutani is as beautiful as ever. Yahaba feels the tell-tale feeling in his gut build once more, slowly coiling, stronger this time. He’s _almost_ there, but not quite. He’s at the edge of the cliff, staring down at the swirling ocean beneath him.

“ _Harder._ ” Yahaba eventually coos, nails digging into the sheets _._ His body _burns;_ it’s searing, everywhere, with liquid need. “Kyou, Kyou _harder.”_

Kyoutani can’t really, like this, so he gives Yahaba a final kiss while he can, licking the roof of his mouth before he slides back onto his knees. He grips Yahaba’s thighs, strong, callused fingers digging into the sensitive skin there, and tugs his left leg over his shoulder.

“On your right side.” Kyoutani commands through broken breaths of air.

“Hhh,” Yahaba shakes with strain, “Why?”

“Just trust me.” He huffs, shifting a little, already close.

Yahaba does as he’s told, twisting onto his side, his left leg shifting into the crook of Kyoutani’s arm-

Then Kyoutani _slams_ in, all bite and bark, hitting _right_ where Yahaba needs him most.

And that’s it, folks. That’s the end of Yahaba Shigeru. His soul moves on, ascends, past this human mortal world of sports and college degrees and jobs and taxes. All he sees is white – and maybe god – as Kyoutani thrusts in beautifully.

The sounds he makes are indescribable. They’re not all that sexy – borderline pathetic, maybe – but it seems to drive Kyoutani on. Yahaba drools out garbage, eyes rolling shut, his face turning to cry into his pillow. Kyoutani’s chest rumbles with a low groan, and Yahaba can’t resist any more.

He worms a hand between his legs and pumps himself twice, his back arching, and his body seizing. His voice pitches a little too high, probably, but Yahaba’s out-of-body experience sends his mind reeling, and his mouth running. Kyoutani pauses too, choking out a gasp, and letting go of Yahaba’s leg as Yahaba squeezes around him. He falls forwards, arms bracing against the pillow, groaning as he fills the condom.

The room is hot, and smell of sex and sweat. Yahaba still trembles, his thighs twitching with aftershocks. His body aches, but it’s a good ache – the feeling after an itch has been scratched.

Yahaba twists onto his back, and Kyoutani slips out of him, tying off the condom and tossing it before he collapses again.

“Are you sated?” Kyoutani mumbles into his chest. His voice is so gravely and dense, Yahaba thinks it might sink in water.

Yahaba shifts, sticky, and sweaty, but indeed tired.

“Mmm, for now.”

Kyoutani smiles against his sternum, and leans up to kiss beneath his throat. “One day I’ll really test that refractory period.”

Yahaba smiles, and rakes his fingernails through Kyoutani’s slightly damp hair. He’s sweaty too – but Yahaba has seen him sweaty countless times. He manages to make it look good, somehow.

He mumbles, his body finally growing tired from the glow, “Can’t wait.”

 

* * *

 

“Next year?” Kyoutani raises an eyebrow behind his textbook.

“Yeah.” Yahaba sips his iced tea, “Semester ends next week, you know.”

“Right.” Kyoutani looks down, “You goin’ home?”

Yahaba shakes his head, “I signed up for apartment living.”

“Ah. I was just going to stay in the dorm.”

“Really?” Yahaba bumps his shoulder together, jostling him against the tree, “Not going home either?”

“No, there’s a training camp this summer I wanted to go to.”

Yahaba grins, “Same.”

There’s a pause, before Yahaba speaks again.

“Do you wanna’ room with me? Watari is going home for the summer.”

No hesitation; “Yeah.”

“Cool.” Yahaba smiles, and rests his head against his shoulder. “That was easy.”

Kyoutani gives a short laugh, before he leans his weight back against Yahaba, and returns to his textbook.

The birds sing high up in the tree, distracting, almost, but Yahaba focuses on Kyoutani’s steady breathing, and falls asleep, their hands tangled together.

 

* * *

 

They’re back where they started.

A new year, a new season. New routines, and new plays. A new apartment, and new classes.

But, they’re back here again, on that couch, listening as the loud music plays post- win.

Yahaba grins from Kyoutani’s lap, this time shameless in his affection.

_This time._

Now, they’re not alone. Oikawa and Iwaizumi sit across from them, in that frat house family room, smiling with the best of them. The partiers drink and scream outside the door, but _they_ gather here, as friends. To Yahaba’s right, he can see Suga, his legs happily thrown over Daichi’s lap.

“No, no no.” Bokuto continues the conversation, laughing, an arm around Kuroo’s shoulders, “It’s not _just_ a movie. It’s like _The Movie._ It’s a real masterpiece of our time.”

“What are we talking about?” Ushijima asks, settling in the single chair around the coffee table.

“Freaky Friday.” Kuroo rolls his eyes, “It’s not that great.”

“But it is! Jamie Lee Curtis is a true acting role model.”  

Sugawara sighs, “All she does now are those dumb yogurt commercials.”

“Okay, but Activia is actually delicious, thank you.” Oikawa lifts up a hand, and the others laugh.

Yahaba laughs too, his back pressed against Kyoutani’s chest. He can feel his breathing – he can feel the nose at his neck. He turns away from the conversation, and towards Kyoutani.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He mumbles back.

“Doin’ good?”

“Drunk.” He replies, thumping his head against Yahaba’s cheek, “Tired.”

“We’ll go home and sleep all day tomorrow.” Yahaba smiles, and turns to press a kiss against his cheek.

“Okay.” He nods, and tips his head up to kiss him back.

“Awwww.” Kuroo suddenly coos, “Look how disgusting they are.”

Yahaba jolts away, his back straightening as they laugh. He feels arms tighten around his waist, and Yahaba joins in on the laughter. A nose buries in his neck, warm, where it belongs, and Yahaba seeks out his hand to squeeze it.

 

* * *

 

Sixteen is Yahaba’s lucky number.

It’s the number that tears past linebackers; the number that holds his hand; the number that kisses his bruises; the number that buys him dinner.

It is Yahaba’s _favorite_ number.

It’s a number that sticks with him, always.

A number he cheers for, as they make it to the College Bowl.

It’s the number he kisses the day he graduates.

They are a living, walking cliché; the football star and the cheerleader that fell in love; but this is no fairy tale.

This story is _theirs._ This is how _they_ fell in love, clichés and all.

It’s the story of how Yahaba gained his favorite number.

**Author's Note:**

> i,,,didn't mean for this to be so long, i'm so sorry,, i didn't realize how much i missed writing kyouhaba 
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://zanimez.tumblr.com/) :))


End file.
